


Lachesis

by chunni



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Pretty Woman Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bernie Taupin is in denial, Drinking Games, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Reid Is His Own Warning, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Music, Mutual Pining, Sex Work, Slow Burn, kind of, mostly just alluded to though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-06-24 13:46:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chunni/pseuds/chunni
Summary: On that fateful day in Dick’s office Elton didn’t get Bernie’s lyrics. It might not change his path to fame, but is it fame he wants from life?On that fateful day in Dick’s office Bernie’s envelope didn’t get picked. His path did change, but not for the better.Fate likes to play tricks and there might be a chance of finding happiness after all.





	1. This Song Has No Title

**Author's Note:**

> Important things out first: This fanfiction is based on the film and solely on the film, this is NO RPF fanfiction. I don't want to invalidate Elton and Bernie's friendship by any means. In fact, I wouldn't want to change any aspect of it. This is merely a What if kind of story that grabbed me and didn't let go, and I fully understand if you don't want to read it (you don't have to).
> 
> That being said, this is more or less a Pretty Woman AU featuring Elton as Edward and Bernie as Vivian (even though it hardly follows the plot of the film). It didn't start out like that to be honest, I just wondered what would change if Elton didn't get Bernie's lyrics, but here we are.
> 
> I hope there are one or two people who enjoy the idea and the story, and please let me know what you think :) (And, as often said, I'm no native speaker, so feel free to point out mistakes I made or sentences that sound weird.)

**Chapter 1 –** _This Song Has No Title_

~

~

~

“Elton came to the conclusion that he, sadly, isn’t interested in your services anymore. He needs something more... spectacular, catchier, you know?” John Reid smiled in a way that would have been reassuring if it weren’t for the fact that he was about to sack poor Jeremy Collins. “You can’t offer what he’s looking for.”

Elton winced, thankful for his decision to wear blue-tinted glasses that might be able to hide the expression of his eyes. He crossed his arms making a small step to the side to release the itch of his legs. He just wanted to flee the room. He didn’t _want_ to do this. But his latest single barely scraped the top of the charts before tumbling down and after talking to John, well…

 _It’s for the best_ , he reminded himself. _John is right_.

The song hadn’t been the best from the beginning, lovable but generic. Jeremy, too, was a lovable guy, albeit a bit shy, and perhaps not as talented as they had thought back then. Well. Such was life. You could be as nice as they came but this was business. In business only real work counted, as John often pointed out.

Elton knew that. Though, he couldn’t help tensing up when Jeremy began to speak, voice croaky as if he were still sobering up from last night’s party.

“I…” He cleared his throat, a trembling hand adjusting the thick-rimmed glasses that hadn’t needed adjustment in the first place. “I can write something better, I swear! Something catchy and spectacular! I… I’ll even work for free for a certain time, but, please, I _need_ this job! I…”

His mouth stayed open even though no words filled the air. His tear-filled gaze danced between John and Elton as if he didn’t even know who he was talking to. In all honesty, Elton wasn’t sure either. He was sure, however, that he wouldn’t be able to say a single word to Jeremy right now, muscles frozen in place. Fortunately, he didn’t have to.

“Your three predecessors needed the job too, Jeremy,” John said, voice almost as icy as his eyes. When he raised a hand to point to something behind their former lyricist, the smile had vanished from his face. “There’s the door.”

Either Jeremy knew that the fight was lost or he didn’t have the strength to keep it up because he left the room without another word, steps slow enough to make Elton bite back the urge to push him forward. _You’re a horrible person_ , a voice inside him whispered but he gulped down the doubts. He was Elton Hercules John, wasn’t he?

He had music to make and people to thrill and he mustn’t be hindered by poor lyricists.

When the door closed with a soft crack, he sighed letting go of the tension that had resided in his body.

Recently he found himself wishing more and more often he would be able to write the song texts himself. Not that he had never done it, but he knew that it wasn’t his strength and the songs he had written all by himself never did that great when released.

Sometimes Elton thought about the day that started it all, the day Ray had handed him a white envelope with lyrics inside that kickstarted his musical career. He didn’t know why but there had been a moment, right when his fingers had touched the paper for the first time, where his heart had skipped a beat, his whole body tingling as if he were diving through chemicals. And for a split second a terrible sensation had rushed through him, the sensation of making a far-reaching mistake that wouldn’t be so easy to correct.

In the end, it must have been the right decision. He could hardly remember who he had worked with to publish his first songs but they had been great hits, hits that hadn’t only made an impact in the UK but the USA as well. They had been great enough to get John Reid’s attention, and wasn’t that something he should be grateful for?

“… before dinner, Elton.” 

Elton flinched and turned to John, ready to snap at him for interrupting his thoughts. Until he realised that it was his fault for not listening in the first place. 

“Sorry,” he murmured trying to forget Jeremy’s sad, accusing eyes that kept popping up inside his mind (next to the half dozen other ones). He blinked a few times focusing on John whose expression darkened in a way that made his stomach churn. Something he wouldn’t admit though. When Elton smiled, it looked like a grimace. “What did you say, darling?” 

John sighed shaking his head slowly, and something inside Elton curled together, muscles tense and ready to flee. His fingers quivered as if wanting to clench fists even though he knew that he could never bring himself to so. What was he waiting for? What was he scared of? 

He shouldn’t be scared. _He wasn’t_. 

John stepped forward until he was standing right in front of him and Elton didn’t withdraw despite the odd urge to do so. Why did his heartbeat drown out any other noise? Why did his breath get stuck in his throat? 

When John cupped his cheek, his thumb caressing the dip of his temple, his skin felt cold against Elton’s, a sensation like stepping barefoot on a stone floor. A shiver ran down his spine, and then he exhaled and a weight fell off his chest. 

_It’s alright_ , his mind hummed like a melody as sweet as honey, and he could almost taste sugar on his tongue. His stomach twisted. _It’s alright_. 

The tension disappeared from John’s eyes (though never entirely, never entirely). It was alright. 

His hand felt warm against Elton’s skin and he felt himself hesitantly returning the smile that danced around John’s lips. 

“Darling,” John said and his voice was soft and _it was alright_. “You need to focus. I said I want the new album out by December and that means you’ll need to find a _good_ lyricist in the following days.” 

There was silence while their gazes locked and Elton fought against the urge to avert his. He didn’t like the look of John’s eyes, never had. Well, in the beginning he had adored his piercing, blue eyes, eyes that wouldn’t have been out of place in a fashion magazine. However, as time went by he had noticed something about those eyes that made the hair at the back of his neck stand up, a strange emptiness. They seemed alien as if lacking something every normal human possessed. He felt bad for feeling that way but as much as he tried, he couldn’t shake off that uneasiness completely. 

“You’re lucky I’ve already made preparations. You’ll find twenty-three applicants and their work samples on the desk. Look through them before dinner, okay?” 

When John kissed him, Elton closed his eyes pressing closer. As long as he kept his eyes closed, as long as he focused on the sparks of electricity running through his veins, he was able to push away the doubts. 

After all, where would he be without John? 

“You’ll be there, won’t you?”, he whispered against John’s lips, their breath mingling in the air, and the hand that was gently combing through his hair froze. That wasn’t good. Elton already knew what the answer would be, when he continued, his heart heavy (but not as heavy as John’s heart of stone). 

“Having dinner with me?” He hated himself for sounding hopeful against all reason. 

After many similar conversations it didn’t hurt anymore when John backed off shaking his head as if it were the easiest thing in the world. As if the idea didn’t even deserve a moment of reflection. “I’ve told you I have an important meeting coming up. I’m a busy man, darling.” 

He turned to the door in a weird resemblance of Jeremy even though _his_ steps were confident and well-paced. 

“You should be too. Don’t forget about the applicants.” 

~ 

Elton didn’t forget about the applicants. 

A part of him wanted to rip the papers to shreds out of spite but he didn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. And maybe that was why he hated himself even more. 

In the end, he did look through the letters, the samples of lyrics that had topics ranging from heartbreak and the summer’s sun to the magic of the moon and birthday parties. Not one of the applicants seemed as if they were able to write the next big hit of Elton John and he violently cringed at some lines. Not once did he feel a melody, vocals and sounds ghosting through his mind. Not once did he feel the urge to pin down the music dancing through him (because there was none). 

When he saw the seventh text rhyming heartbreak with ache in the same boring way, he let out a scream loud enough to make his face burn of embarrassment. Or wasn’t it anger? 

He clenched his teeth throwing the letter of a certain Jubilee Miller into the air where it floated to the ground like the leaf of a tree. The young lady's lopsided grin stared at him from the floor and Elton almost stumbled over his char in his attempt to leave the room as quickly as possible. He couldn’t bear to look through these damn papers anymore.

It would have been easy to call a cab to drive him back home and he should have done it probably. The people of London knew him by now and it grew increasingly difficult to walk the streets without getting noticed, especially in the clothes he usually wore. But he had no desire to eat by himself for the fifth time in five days, no desire to listen to the silence of empty rooms and empty hearts. He needed to breathe. Real air, not this sticky and poor imitation that couldn’t even be improved by open windows. 

He needed to go for a walk. 

The night was black, the sky clouded enough to hide most of the stars that would have made their way through the lights and fumes of the city.

Elton hadn’t noticed how much time he had spent in the studio but, in the end, it didn’t matter to him. He actually preferred the darkness to the overwhelming crowds and noises of the day. It was nice to be able to blend into the shadows, it was nice to _not_ be the centre of attention for once, it was nice to imagine himself away from all the problems and doubts gnawing at him.

At night there was a certain energy flooding the streets, an anticipation that screamed at him to live in the moment, to forget the past and the future, a tingling on his skin as if magic were real, as if he were able to stumble into a different reality by reaching out a hand.

When he took a deep breath, the coldness of early autumn threatened to freeze his throat, a breeze blew strands of hair across his face, and a shiver ran down his spine. For a moment he felt as if he could be carried away by the wind, limbs light as feathers, and that would have been nice too. It was a relief.

He had no place he wanted to go to, he just let his feet lead him through the streets, the plain dark jacket he had grabbed not to attract attention firmly buttoned up. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when he ended up in an alley he had never seen before (but maybe something inside him had known where to go after all).

~

Bernie took a deep drag on his cigarette before breathing the smoke into the air and watching the small grey tendrils climb into the sky. The headache thumping somewhere behind his temple faded to a soft tapping and for a moment his mind was blissfully empty. Such feelings never lasted though.

There was a tension inside him that didn’t want to go away and he wished he had doubled the bottle of cheap beer he had drunk in preparation. He always drunk in preparation but, somehow, it was never enough.

Sometimes he wondered if life had something else in mind for him, if it shouldn’t have been different, if he had unknowingly taken the wrong turn. Sometimes the notepad with its creased and yellowish paper seemed to call him, a soft whisper in the air, and he yearned for a pencil to write down the words burning in his mind like candles. 

There had been a time when Bernie had been proud of his work. A time when he had been sure that his lyrics were special, destined for being something more than plain pencil strokes on a piece of paper. He had told himself that he had to follow his dream, that there would be someone out there looking for what he, and only he, could offer. He had told himself he would know when he met that person. 

However, his advertisements in the newspaper had hardly ever led to meetings and those he had met hadn’t been particularly interested in his work. Getting rejections day after day forced him to come to the bitter conclusion that, perhaps, he wasn’t destined for great things after all (and maybe not even for good things).

That, perhaps, he would die young and sick and poor in one of London’s dirty alleys and on some of his worse days that didn’t appear that horrible anymore. 

It was on his better days that he forced himself to go out, that he forced himself to send out applications, to find work to do, be it gardening for that old lady down the street or moving the furniture for that newlywed couple that moved into the near apartment complex. And sometimes he did… _this_. 

To make it clear, Bernie wasn’t gay. He had made out with quite a few girls in the past and he had never had any doubt about his sexuality. He still hadn’t. 

Though, all it had taken was one day to convince him that if you fell deep enough every step you took went upwards. Even the ones you were struggling with (and perhaps those even more). 

It had been a few months ago and it had been a night like this, albeit warmer, maybe a little less cloudy but windy just the same. 

He remembered being drunk. Not that kind of drunk that sent fizzy sparks through your stomach but that kind of drunk that played with your mind making you wonder how you could be still alive (and he _had_ wondered afterwards). 

It had been the day he had been forced to terminate his rental contract because he hadn’t seen a way to come up with the necessary money. He hadn’t even had enough money to buy something to eat back then which alone would have been reason enough to drink (because how else should he fill his stomach?). Seeing his life crumble to pieces without being able to do anything against it would have made everyone seek the sweet daze of booze. Bernie had been no exception. 

Tumbling around the streets, head heavy, legs wobbly and oddly stiff at the same time, he had met the man. 

Bernie didn’t remember his name (had he even mentioned it?) and he was glad he didn’t. It was easier that way, easy to push the Memory to the back of his mind, easy to tell himself that he would forget about it soon enough, that he had already forgotten most of it. (He hadn’t and even if he had, there would be new memories to lie awake over.) 

What Bernie did remember was a navy-blue coat that had struck him as quite warm for spring, even considering the nightly temperatures. It had made him pause long enough to get noticed (and he still couldn’t decide if that had been luck or utter misfortune). 

He remembered strange words floating through his mind like hieroglyphs. At first because he had hardly been able to listen to another voice in his alcohol-induced state, let alone understand whole sentences. 

Then he had felt fingertips at his arm wandering upwards, he had felt breath against his skin, he had felt body heat radiating much too close to his own skin, and it had been as if he were wandering through a blazing desert, hot, nauseating, and oh so deadly. 

Though, it had taken him a few more seconds to focus on the actual words until it finally dawned on him _what_ it was the guy wanted. 

Bernie remembered freezing. He remembered screaming inside his mind. He remembered trying to fight back the exhaustion to tell the guy that the only thing he would be touching of him would be his face when he punched it. 

He hadn’t done it. 

He _had_ said something, though, and funny enough, those were the only words he remembered. (Maybe they would stay ingrained in his mind for his whole remaining life.) 

“How much?”, he had asked. (He must have slurred but the man must have understood him anyway and Bernie must have got an answer too because-) 

He remembered falling down on his knees to suck off a stranger he had never even seen before. 

At least that time he had been too drunk to taste anything else than his own bile creeping up his throat (and maybe that was why he drowned whole bottles in preparation nowadays). At least that time the man hadn’t tried to talk him into doing more and, well, the money had been good enough, hadn’t it? 

Good enough to make him... reconsider. (It wasn’t the easiest job but the most well-paid for sure). 

At first he had told himself that it was purely coincidental when he found himself lingering in the same dimly lit streets at night, dressed in more and more revealing clothes (because summer had been approaching, right?).

After a while he hadn’t even tried to keep up the pretence anymore. After a while he didn’t feel like throwing up immediately after waking up the next day. After a while a dizzying emptiness replaced the shame and desperation (or perhaps it just knew how to cover them up). 

Bernie wasn’t there more often than once a week, had gone almost a whole month without doing _those things_ (because calling it how it was would make it only more real). Sometimes he was lucky and got well-paid (normal) work to do. 

In the last weeks he hadn’t been lucky (and he had often wondered how much longer this torturous ordeal that his life was would go on until he would break completely). 

Bernie took another drag before throwing the still glimmering cigarette butt onto the brittle stones of the pavement. It sparked a few times before blending into the darkness (and he desperately wished he could too). 

He shivered and a part of him knew that it wasn’t only because of the cold of the wind. He was more tense than usual and maybe that was because it was his second time this week already (because he still needed a hundred pounds or so to be able to pay the rent of his tiny room, and what should he do if he weren’t able to?). 

There might have been a time where he’d been an optimist, always looking for the positive side of things. Nowadays he felt lucky when he could gather enough strength to rise and dress in the morning. 

Shaking his head to force these less-encouraging words off his mind, he crossed the street to check the usual spots that had seldom disappointed him in the past. 

The moon had somehow found its way through the clouds in the sky, its pale light dancing over the dark buildings and alleyways. 

That was when Bernie saw _him_. 

Perhaps it was because he saw the expensive looking watch glimmering at his wrist. 

Perhaps it was because he saw the blue-tinted glasses (and someone who dared wearing those couldn’t be a bad guy, could he?). 

Or perhaps it was the way he was standing in the midst of the street so oddly _familiar_ , so terribly lost, and for a moment Bernie just wanted to throw his arms around him because he sure did look like someone who could do with a hug. 

Whatever it was (and maybe it was all of it), it made his heart leap inside his chest, the air vibrating as if daring him to go forward, as if _wanting_ him to go forward, and he swallowed hard and he straightened his back putting on his best smile and.

He covered the few metres separating him from the man. 

~ 

~

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _* Title is inspired by Lachesis, one of the Three Fates in Greek mythology. The name Lachesis derives from the verb meaning to obtain by fate, lot, or divine will. She had the task of measuring the thread of life that was spun on the spindle Clotho held. As a result, she was responsible for deciding how much life each living being on Earth had. After measuring the thread, she also was the decider of a person's destiny._


	2. Candle In The Wind

**Chapter 2 –** _Candle In The Wind_

~ 

~

~

“You look like you could do with some company.”

Elton froze, eyes growing wide as the fear that someone had recognised him ran through him (and he did _not_ want to deal with persistent fans right now). It was only when he turned his head to look at the man that the content of the words reached his consciousness. He exhaled the breath he had held. No fan, good.

That didn’t mean he had wanted to be approached in the first place though.

He blinked a few times, unsure how to respond. He couldn’t shake off the weird tingle dancing through his body, almost as if urging him to recall a memory he couldn’t grasp. His eyes roamed over the man in front of him, a blue veil covering the colours, and he almost wished he hadn’t picked those glasses to wear.

The first thing he noticed was the lack of appropriate clothes and that should have made him think. Though, what he did wear made his thoughts stray away soon enough. It was a button-down shirt, perhaps purple. He couldn’t be sure as he didn’t want to check, because why on earth would anyone decide to open more than the top button in this cold? Why on earth would anyone decide to wear a shirt thin enough to make out any arch of muscle in this cold?

Elton wasn’t sure why he hurried to look up, the icy breeze a sharp contrast against the heat of his cheeks. For a few seconds he couldn’t grasp a thought, mind empty. Maybe that was why it took him much too long to realise that he was staring straight into the other man’s eyes (and they were pretty eyes, eyes with a certain kind of softness to them, a certain kind of warmth that poured right into his heart).

“I, eh, well…,” His lips trembled as he desperately tried to come up with a reply, his mouth dry (and what had been the question again?). He shook his head, face twisting with a feeling somewhere between embarrassment and anger. Goddammit, that stranger must think he was crazy, and he wasn’t usually that easily flustered, was he?

“I shouldn’t be here,” Elton ground out. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes as if he could rub away his frustration thereby, the frustration that had twisted his stomach since the day begun (and maybe even since before).

What he had said was true at least. He shouldn’t be wandering around London’s dark alleys when there were other things he could do, like employing a new lyricist (or like sulking in those big rooms of the mansion that seemed so much bigger when you were the only person inhabiting them).

Why was he even talking to a stranger? He shouldn’t have said anything. He would have walked away without a word at any other day, why not now? He didn’t know (but he _had_ felt that urge to reply, had heard that whisper inside his mind asking _why not_?, and it almost seemed as if there were a rope tied around his body keeping him in place, and it almost seemed as if he _wanted_ to stay).

“I should call a cab,” he forced himself to say because that was what John would want him to do, wasn’t it?

He stared at a spot across the street trying to remember where he had last seen a telephone box but his mind refused to focus on anything else than the man next to him. The man apparently didn’t want him to remember either because Elton felt a hand curling around his wrist.

“ _Wait!_ ”

If the word hadn’t made him pause, the shaky, almost panicked sound of his voice would have. _This isn’t right_ , Elton thought, a cold shiver running down his spine. No one’s voice should sound like that, a sound reminding him of shards of glass (and they seemed to cut through his flesh like knifes).

“You’re here, aren’t you?” The man’s voice could have passed off as normal if it weren’t for the tremble tugging at the words.

There was a shaky exhale, the scent of alcohol and cigarette in the air, and Elton shouldn’t have been able to feel the breath against his skin. The grip around his wrist burned and the flame reached out to roam through his body chasing away the cold. Why was he feeling as if he were missing the most important piece of the puzzle?

“You haven’t come just to go back now, have you? W-why don’t you… stay?”

Elton blinked.

“I don’t even know your name,” he said because it was the first thing that came to his mind. When he looked up to meet those eyes framed by long dark hair, eyes fractured by emotions that shouldn’t be visible in anyone’s eyes, his breath got stuck in his throat and any other word that might have found its way into the air, too. Something ached inside him, a soft pang inside his chest, and a part of him wondered why.

The man knitted his brows as silence creeped upon them. It was only when Elton began to doubt he would even get an answer that the man raised his voice again.

“I’m… Bernie.” It sounded as if he were even more surprised by his answer than Elton was. Or perhaps not surprised but irritated because he shook his head a second later, the jaw tensing, and that hand around Elton’s wrist was pressing, burning, clutching.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bernie ground out, voice cold, much too cold, _and it didn’t seem right_.

“It matters to me.” Elton didn’t know why but the words seemed right and it might have been the only good thing he had said that day. Bernie didn’t feel the same way apparently.

“I…” A snort without a trace of joy, a gaze as lost as a sky without stars. “Don’t pretend it’s… it’s… _fuck_ , do you wanna do it or not?!”

“Do…,” Elton breathed and it was weird because he couldn’t feel his tongue anymore as a terrible idea formed inside his mind drowning out every other thought. Dizziness almost swept him off his feet and might have had if it weren’t for Bernie still holding onto his wrist. He shivered. “Do… what…?”

Bernie eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His mouth opened, then closed again. The colour of his cheeks seemed to darken (and Elton prayed for it to be a trick of light because what reason had he to blush?).

“W-well.” Bernie licked his lips and it shouldn’t have made Elton’s mouth that dry. It shouldn’t have made his heart stutter inside his chest. “If you want to play that game, fine by me.”

Elton frowned. He couldn’t play a game he didn’t know the rules of, could he?

However, he didn’t get to voice his confusion because that was when Bernie let go of his wrist annd went down on his knees _right in front of him_ and Elton knew with that kind of clarity that cut through your mind like ice what he had got himself into. _Fuck_.

He would never admit it but there was a part of him that considered going along, that whispered _why not?,_ that couldn’t care less about a boyfriend that didn’t even want to eat dinner with him anymore, that felt heat pooling in the pit of his stomach at the very thought of it. And for a second he imagined himself reaching forward, burying his hand in that long hair and it would surely feel like silk between his fingers, and if Bernie was initiating this, _he_ couldn’t be blamed, could he?

But then he felt a hand at the top of his jeans moving to open the zip, just barely grazing his erection, making him gasp (and he shouldn’t be that fucking turned on, he shouldn’t be). His skin prickled as if he were running through a burning field but the shiver running down his spine was cold as ice.

Because he knew, _he knew_ , that Bernie didn’t want this and he might be a stranger to Elton but it surely didn’t feel like that. He didn’t know why but he felt a connection he had never felt before. It yelled at him to stop because _he knew_ that Bernie ached with that kind of suppressed anguish that was worse than any cry of help would be, and that made him ache too.

His body moved by itself, too quick for his mind to catch up.

He stumbled backwards, glasses almost leaping off his nose as he rushed to grab Bernie’s shoulders, to pull him upwards (because he couldn’t look down at him, _he couldn’t_ ). His own heartbeat screamed louder than the wind in his ears.

“Shit, get up, _get up_ , I don’t-,” he blurted out shaking his head. He tried to breathe in but his lungs didn’t want to follow and he almost ended up choking. “I’m not doing this, I… I…”

He couldn’t look at Bernie when he reached into the pocket of his jacket and there wasn’t anything, it was empty, and why was it empty? (Only later did he remember that it wasn’t one of his jackets in the first place.) When an idea crossed his mind, he didn’t think twice.

He opened the clasp of his watch, pressed the cold metal into Bernie’s hand and didn’t loosen his grip until he could be sure that Bernie wouldn’t let it fall to the ground. It was only then that he withdrew his arm taking a few steps backwards with shaky legs. It was only then that he dared to look upwards.

Bernie’s face resembled a statue, devoid of any emotions, blank and firm and unmoving. If he hadn’t been blinking, you wouldn’t have thought he was human at all. Elton expected him to return the watch but nothing like that happened. Instead, the tension faded from Bernie’s face and he looked so tired and exhausted and helpless that Elton considered asking if he would like to share a cab. Of course, he didn’t do it.

He waited for something to break the screaming silence, waited for Bernie to say something (and perhaps hoped so too). It didn’t happen.

Though, when Bernie turned around, fingers clutching the watch, Elton noticed something rushing through the depths of his eyes, a short, glimmering spark, and it might have been relief.

Something inside him urged him to move, to go follow Bernie wherever he might be going. But he couldn’t find the strength to do so, couldn’t find the strength to do anything except breathing.

The cold air seemed more biting, now that he was alone again, and he had never yearned for the soft blankets of his bed more. He would have turned around to go looking for a telephone box if he hadn’t noticed the white speck at the corners of his vision in that moment.

The paper lying on the street trembled in the wind as if threatening to fly away. It was easy to step forward, easy to grab the paper and unfold it.

 _Border Song_ , it said. _Written by Bernie Taupin_.

~

In the end, Elton didn’t go to bed when he arrived at home.

Instead, he went to the piano room, and perhaps there was a good aspect in John’s absence after all. If no one was there, he couldn’t keep anyone awake by playing music.

When he had read the lyrics on that piece of paper, he couldn't believe his eyes because they hadn’t been simple lyrics. When he had read them, he had heard them as well, a sweet melody dancing, twirling inside his head like singing birds in spring. For a moment he had been flying too.

In the cab, he had almost yelled at the driver because he could drive faster, surely, couldn’t he? And Elton had _needed_ to go home, his fingers trembling and itching to write down the notes, a desire so strong it had captured his mind with a grip of iron and hadn’t let go until he had finished the song.

There was an energy pooling through his veins he hadn’t known he had been missing, but now that he had found it he couldn’t live without it.

In the past months he could hardly remember why he had wanted to become a musician in the first place, why he had made himself go on stages to perform songs he didn’t care about, why he had made himself work with people he cared about even less. Some of these songs might have been popular enough to make money but that didn’t mean he liked them himself.

Elton had always felt that they weren’t right and now he knew why. They didn’t feel like his songs because they weren’t _his_ , because he hadn’t felt them like he felt _Border Song_. It was like comparing the flame of a flickering candle to the power of a forest fire. Every other song he had written seemed stale and cold and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to go back.

 _This_ was what he was meant to play. _This_ was what he was meant to sing.

Elton needed to see Bernie again.

~

Bernie did _not_ want to see that guy ever again.

Heat was still lingering in his cheeks without an indication of going away anytime soon. He was glad that his leather jacket covered the mirror hanging on the wall. He didn’t know if he would be able to stomach looking at his own reflection right now (and he knew what to expect anyway.)

The watch didn’t feel cold inside his hand anymore. It was heavy enough to indicate that you wouldn’t be able to buy it at any shop that came along. When he sat down on his mattress to look at it, the silver glimmered beneath the dim light of the lamp.

He still didn’t know if he should be glad or upset about the fact that a stranger had given him an expensive looking watch without having any reason to do so. He still didn’t know if that man really hadn’t wanted him to do any of _these things_ in the first place or if he had just changed his mind at the last possible moment.

Had he given away the watch as some kind of apology? But why would he feel the need to apologise if he hadn’t done anything? (And Bernie remembered all too well those times he would come home with a hurting jaw or a bruised cheek, and he had barely ever got a friendly word, let alone an apology.)

Had he felt bad because of anything else?

Bernie narrowed his eyes as a spark rushed through his body urging him to throw that damned watch against the wall. His grip tightened, the silver links pressing into his skin. “I don’t need your pity,” he muttered grimacing even though no one could hear him, let alone _he_.

 _What a life he must lead!_ Bernie snorted and the sound was ugly and sad but he didn’t care. _Being able to give away such a luxurious watch like that!_ A watch that looked as if it had cost more than the annual rent of this room.

That guy probably had dozens of watches like this one lying around in his flashy mansion. Bernie could see it before his eyes. Chambers filled with ancient Greek statues and Oriental carpets and servants flocking around like seagulls at the beach. That guy couldn’t be any different than all those other pretentious, rich bastards that lived a life divorced from reality. Right?

 _It matters to me_ , the voice of his memory whispered, soft and warm.

Bernie felt the tension melt away. He sighed, longly, much too longly, before letting himself fall back, mattress hard against his head. He sighed again.

When he lifted his hand, watch dangling from his fingers, he wondered what it might look like on his own wrist, and wouldn’t it be nice to keep it? But he knew that he needed money, real money, no useless jewellery. That was why he would have to sell it (and why did that thought send a pang through his chest?).

He blinked with heavy lids and sighed.

It was then that he noticed something at the side of the case, ingrained in the silver. Small letters in cursive. Squinting he pulled the watch closer to his face until he could decipher the name (because a name it was).

 _Elton Hercules John_.

 _Weird name_ , Bernie thought.

However, when he put away the watch and switched off the lamp to go to sleep, his skin prickled and his heart leaped.

That name did sound familiar somehow.

~ 

Bernie felt his muscles tensing when he stepped through the entrance of the jeweller’s shop the next day. It didn’t feel right. It _wasn’t_ right. He knew he shouldn’t be here because there was no way he would be able to afford anything in this shop, even if he were to grow a hundred years old. Wearing his old, dusty leather jacket that was torn at some places, he didn’t even look like he belonged here. 

Necklaces and bracelets, watches and rings sparkled in the light of countless ceiling lamps that only made him feel more exposed. Jewels were worked into some of them, colourful and neat and pretty, made for kings and queens and whoever was rich enough to be able to buy such luxuries. He noticed rubies, emeralds and diamonds until he shook his head, fighting the urge to close his eyes. 

The price tags were tiny, probably to hide the fact that the sum to pay would be so much bigger. They made him want to throw up. Why would anyone buy such freaking unnecessary and overpriced things by their own decision? 

Clenching his teeth, he forced himself to move, to cross the room. The blond woman standing behind the counter wore golden-rimmed glasses and the grey eyes beneath them narrowed when her gaze met Bernie’s. She didn’t say anything but the way she pursed her lips jutting her chin forward made evident what she thought of him. 

“Good morning.” Bernie forced himself to smile but she didn’t return it and it soon crumbled away. He had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Why was he doing this again?

(Of course he knew why, it was always the same after all. The same miserable life.) 

“I wondered if you could tell me how much this is worth?” He pulled the watch out of the pocket of his jeans to hold it into the air. 

She eyed it for a few seconds, then lifted an elegantly curved brow. “Is that your watch, Mister?” 

Bernie gulped down the rising anger and the impolite words he very much wanted to yell at her face. 

“It’s mine.” That man, Elton, hadn’t said anything about returning it, had he? His heart jumped at the memory and he hurried to focus on the saleswoman again. He wouldn’t let himself blush here of all places. 

“I...” He cleared his throat when the word came out croaky. “I don’t want to sell it to you, I only ask for you to estimate its worth. Please, could you do that for me?” 

She didn’t look convinced but after another moment of tense silence she extended a hand. “I’d need to take a look, Mister,” she cooed in her sickeningly sweet voice. “If you could hand me the watch, please...” 

It was weird how his hand grew heavy, the air thick as if working against him, as if it didn’t want him to let go of the watch, even if only for a short moment. _It’s just a watch_ , he told himself, _an expensive watch but a watch nonetheless. I’m going to sell it anyway._

Nevertheless, his stomach did turn when the woman closed her fingers around the silver clock-face. 

His skin prickled while he watched her inspecting the watch with narrowed eyes. His mind was yelling at him to leave this shop as soon as possible and he almost felt as if he were breathing in poisonous gas while being here.

“Elton Hercules John?,” the woman murmured. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t even meant for him probably, but it was enough to jerk him out of his thoughts. “There’s a singer called like that, isn’t it?” 

_Singer?_

Bernie froze as a melody rang through his memory, a melody distorted by the radio, a melody he might have listened to while showering, a melody and a beautiful voice, and hadn’t the hosts mentioned a name, a name, a name just like... Elton John? 

He didn’t have time to follow that trail of thoughts, though, because he hadn’t been the only one who had caught the woman’s words. 

“Elton Hercules John?”, a male voice said with a heavy accent. 

Bernie turned his head to look at the intruder and a wave of resentment surged through his body. 

The man had dark hair matching nicely with his black suit. It was a neat suit, one that looked as if it hadn’t even _seen_ a speck of dirt in its existence (because if it had, the man looked as if he would rather buy a new one than bother himself with such mundane things as washing machines). His blue eyes were cold and calculating and callous. They sent a shiver down Bernie’s neck even though they weren’t even looking at him.

“May I look at that watch, Madam?” The man’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer and Bernie resisted the urge to push him away. “It does seem awfully familiar to me.” 

“It’s _my_ watch,” Bernie snapped (and he _knew_ , he just knew it was a mistake the second the words left his mouth). 

The man’s jaw tensed even before he turned around to face Bernie. When he did, he lifted his brows, his lips twisting to that kind of smug, conceited smile that one might give overly rude children. 

“Well, I thoroughly doubt that, Mister...?” 

“I don’t think my name’s of your concern,” Bernie ground out. The back of his head throbbed with an approaching headache. When he snatched the watch out of the woman’s hand, she didn’t move, only her eyes widened slightly. “I’m leaving.” 

Fuck that estimation, he would just go to the next pawnbroker and turn that damn thing into money right now. 

And he would have done that if that bastard hadn’t decided to catch the wrist that was holding the watch. The fingers clenched around his skin in a way that would surely leave marks, the pressure making his stomach churn. 

He wanted to glare and yell at the man, but something made him pause, his blood growing colder by the minute.

“I don’t think I can let you go. After all, theft is a serious crime and should be treated as such.” 

~ 

~

~


	3. Someone Saved My Life Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! :) Thanks to everyone who is reading and hopefully enjoying this story, and especially to all those nice people leaving comments/kudos. They really make my day! 
> 
> I'll be on vacation for two+ weeks, so the next chapter might take some time, but it'll come, I promise.

**Chapter 3 –** _Someone Saved My Life Tonight_

~ 

~

~

The cab driver drifted around a corner that he definitely shouldn’t have taken with that kind of speed and Elton’s head collided with the headrest. A light throbbing spread through his forehead as he tried to bite back the curse itching in his throat. His left hand clutched the seat to keep something like that from happening again. Though, he had told driver to hurry up, hadn’t he? 

He tugged at the sleeve of his flower-patterned shirt smoothing out some creases. His mind went back to the call he had got less than half an hour ago. John’s call. 

_How the hell did you manage to get a watch stolen that should have been clasped around your wrist?! You haven’t been drinking again, have you?!_

Elton flinched at the memory, his heart twisting. How could he have been that dumb? How could he have forgotten that his name was ingrained in that watch, stupidly easy to track back? 

When John had called, he hadn’t known what to say. He still didn’t. He had only known that he couldn’t let John take Bernie to the police, determination burning through his veins.

Somehow, Elton had managed to convince him to wait until he would arrive at the shop, and here he was. Sitting in a cab and fighting the panic that threatened to suffocate him because he did _not_ know how to detangle this deadly net. _What a mess._

The drive went by in the blink of an eye. When the car pulled to a stop, his mind suggested staying a little while longer, and wouldn’t it be better to think about what he should say a bit more? But, _no_ , he had no time, he needed to go. _Now_.

The first thing Elton saw after getting off the car was John approaching him and his expression made him want to get right back in. He swallowed hard, legs growing weak. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” John hissed, his voice cutting through Elton’s flesh like swords. “I certainly don’t.” 

When Elton felt a hand grazing his shoulder blades to gently press against his lower back, it wasn’t supporting or encouraging at all. The hand could have been a knife just as well, forcing him to go forward whether he wanted to or not. The touch seemed to burn through the textures of both coat and shirt, and he felt oddly naked. 

“I do,” he murmured, hoped, _prayed_. 

John didn’t listen. “You know, he’s saying _you_ gave him the watch.” A scornful laugh, the click of a tongue. (And it made Elton _sick_ ). “You’d think they’d get more creative over time.” 

Elton’s heart froze, his lips trembling as he searched for a reply. Though, he didn’t get to voice it. 

“You did _not_ give that dirty tramp your watch, did you?”, John whispered and he was close, too close. His hair tickled Elton’s cheek, the lips almost brushed his earlobe, and it seemed much too intimate for being displayed in public like that. A shiver ran down his spine and for a horrible second he couldn’t breathe.

Then something struck his mind like lightning, something snapped, and anger sparked through him on such a deep level that it shook his whole body. He didn’t even know why but he couldn’t stop himself (and maybe he also didn’t care). 

When he pushed away the body next to his, it sent John stumbling, and a weird kind of satisfaction ran through his veins.

“What if I did?!”, he yelled. “It isn’t and never has been _your_ watch, right?! _My god_ , it’s...” He broke out into ugly laughter and why did he laugh when this situation wasn’t funny at all? 

“It’s just a freaking watch!” _Just a watch, just a watch, just a watch..._

... and a man who wrote the most achingly beautiful songs. 

Elton didn’t wait for John to regain his composure. Clenching his hands, he turned around to walk straight to the jeweller’s shop appearing at the end of the pavement.

Something else appeared as well. Two men. 

The bullnecked officer looked as if the worst day of his life had just got worse, his face a firm mask except for glaring eyes. His lips were pressed shut even though the man next to him seemed to talk insistently to him. 

_Bernie_. Elton’s heart skipped a beat. _Bernie Taupin_. 

He seemed different, somehow.

Maybe it was the way he did wear a jacket now. The way its fabric had loosened over time making it too big for his body. As if he would rather disappear in it. As if he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. As if he didn’t have the means to buy a new one.

The wind blew long strands of dark hair around like petals of flowers, and it had been windy too, yesterday, hadn’t it? But yesterday hadn’t felt real. Their conversation hadn’t felt real. It was only now that Elton realised just how unbelievable the evening had seemed after a night’s sleep.

But it felt real now. It felt real because he wasn’t wearing tinted glasses that provided a certain detachment, if only mentally. It felt real because he wasn’t lost in his thoughts anymore, because he could see _him_ in all his colours beneath the sun’s light.

It felt real because he had a goal. He might not know how to accomplish it but accomplishing it he would.

He took a deep breath before walking closer in long strides. When he came to a halt, there was an energy he hadn’t felt for a long time.

“You can leave now, officer.”

“I’m on duty. Who are you trying to command me?” The policeman didn’t turn his head, eyes fixed on Bernie as if daring him to run away. When he lifted his hand slightly, Elton noticed the shiny metal the fingers were clenching around. His watch. _Bernie’s watch_.

“I happen to be the guy that watch there belongs to,” he said. “Or, well, belonged to.”

It was as if someone had decided to freeze time. In another life he might have found it funny how both the officer and Bernie stopped glaring daggers at each other the second the words left his mouth.

“Wha-?”, the officer began before turning around to look at him. His eyes grew almost comically wide, mouth gaping for a few seconds of silence, and it almost was like watching another person getting an electric shock.

The man’s intense stare made Elton’s skin itch but it was better than looking at Bernie.

Because he had looked at him, he _had_ , and for a second their gazes had met like two flames merging into a blazing, a blinding fire. Bernie’s eyes hadn’t widened, his lips firmly pressed together, and you would have believed he hadn’t reacted at all if there hadn’t been that soft blush grazing his cheeks, that soft storm of emotions inside his soft, soft eyes.

And their gazes hadn’t been the only things burning. Elton’s heart had caught fire too, its flame sparking and flaring, and he couldn’t keep looking at him. He _couldn’t_.

“Elton John?”, the officer said and a shaky chuckle escaped his mouth. “I can’t believe it. Wow. You really are Elton John?”

“Eh, yes. I… I could show you my ID?” Elton had to resist the urge to run his fingers through his hair. It was weird how he didn’t have a problem with being the centre of attention while playing on stage but as soon as he had to talk to strangers his mind froze and his heart raced and he would rather hide away, thank you very much.

“Oh, not necessary, Mr John, not necessary at all.” The officer’s frown had transformed into a smile, eyes bright and friendly. It seemed as if he had all but forgotten about Bernie and the reason he had been called. Maybe he had.

“You know, I really admire your music. My wife and I, we’ve got all your records, great work! Wait a second…” He knitted his brows before rummaging in the pockets of his uniform.

Elton opened his mouth to reply only to realise that he didn’t know what to say. He only wanted to help Bernie, he hadn’t expected this kind of situation. And, honestly, he just wanted that policeman to freaking leave already.

“Would you mind signing this for me?” The officer held out a pencil and a slightly creased photo that looked like the black and white cover of Elton’s latest single. “The name’s Douglas Baker.”

“Eh, of course.” It was hard not to grimace as he hurried to put down the words with as few pencil strokes as possible. He hated that photo. (Had he always looked in it as if he had stumbled on a stone and hadn’t bothered to stand up again?) He found himself hating that dumb song even more.

It was right after he handed back the signed photo that John appeared next to him. His heart fell to the depths of his stomach.

“Elton, I don’t think you should be signing photos for this fine officer when he’s about to arrest a _proven_ thief,” John said without looking at him, voice cold as ice.

“Ah, right…” The policeman looked as if someone had slapped him, eyes widening. His head shot to the side as if making sure that Bernie hadn’t vanished into thin air. Though, it wouldn’t have been necessary. Bernie didn’t look as if he had moved as much as an inch during the last minutes, expression frozen as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

The officer blinked a few times, hand with the watch fluttering in the air as if he couldn’t decide what to do with it. But then he sighed, firm mask back in place. When he extended his other hand to grab Bernie, Elton’s mind screamed at him to intervene.

“Wait! I…” He gulped, shook his head. “I’m afraid this is a… _huge_ misunderstanding.”

The silence was short but tense enough to make him feel as if a claw were squeezing his heart. It was a relief when he made himself continue because at least then he wouldn’t have to listen to words he didn’t want to hear. 

“Bernie didn’t steal my watch. I, well, I gave it to him by my own free will. No crime, officer.” He forced himself to smile. “No need to arrest anyone.” 

He took a deep breath. When he spoke again, the lie fell easily off his lips. Maybe too easily.

“I gave him the watch as a sort of... payment in advance... because I’d forgotten my wallet when we met. I haven’t told anyone yet because we’ve only made arrangements yesterday, and I told him to keep quiet about it, but...”

He wet his lips. His mouth felt oddly dry but warmth danced through his body and he might have spoken the truth after all. 

“I’ve hired him as my lyricist.” 

~ 

Bernie had already seen it before his eyes. 

A cold and crowded courtroom. High walls of stone. Bars of iron, unyielding and ugly. Nausea had settled in his stomach and fear had sunken into his body like acid because he didn’t have the money to deal with that. Because he didn’t even _know_ how to deal with that.

But he had been there, Elton, Elton John, the singer, the man he had offered himself to, and he had said _that word_. 

Lyricist. 

_I’ve hired him as my lyricist._

If Bernie hadn’t already felt as if he were stumbling through a dream, he would have now. 

He could hardly focus on the men in front of him, let alone listen to the words being spoken. 

His mind was busy trying to make sense of that one sentence that screamed through his soul, because how could it be real? How could Elton have said such a thing?

Bernie knew he hadn’t misheard him but the words didn’t want to feel right. He _knew_ them, but it was as if they had got new meanings and someone had forgotten to send him a note. 

It _couldn’t_ be real, could it? 

He blinked once, twice. The sun burned his back but he didn’t move, couldn’t move. It took him another few seconds to escape the storm of his mind and to focus on his surroundings again.

When he did, he noticed that Elton and that blue-eyed bastard were yelling at each other and that the officer was gone. It _must_ be a dream, right? A crazy dream summoned by too much alcohol and nicotine. 

“John, I don’t care if you-,“ Elton didn’t finish the sentence when a hand grabbed his shoulder. Wasn’t it weird how John’s fingers were digging into the skin as if he were trying to cut through the shirt with his nails? Wasn’t it weird how Elton’s eyes widened slightly, a beautiful green, a green that grew duller by the minute? Wasn’t it weird how his limbs became lifeless as if someone had cut the strings holding them? 

Bernie didn’t know why he clenched his hands to fists, why anger began bubbling up inside him, and that was weird too. Wasn’t it? 

“As much as I love arguing with you in public, _darling_ , I’ve got more important things to do,” John whispered. Bernie almost didn’t catch his words and he would have felt better if he hadn’t. “We’re going to resume this talk later.” 

Elton didn’t answer and John turned around without another word. 

_Weird_ , Bernie’s mind said. His heart twisted despite himself. 

Elton’s eyes were glued on John’s disappearing back, but, _no_ , he wasn’t really looking, was he? His pupils lacked the lively sparkle of awareness, depths oddly empty, and perhaps that was because he wasn’t really _there_ , because he was lost in his mind just like Bernie had been.

Bernie wanted to detest him because he wore flashy shirts and tinted glasses and expensive watches, because he signed photos for policemen, because he had _lied_ , he had freaking lied about an arrangement they had never done, and why the fuck did he know about Bernie’s lyrics?

He couldn’t make himself detest Elton.

“Why did you say that?”

Elton flinched but the sparkle returned to his eyes as he whirled around (and Bernie was _glad_ ).

“I… I could hardly let him take you to court for a crime you didn’t commit, right?” Elton chuckled lightly, gaze straying away as he rubbed his neck. If Bernie hadn’t known better, he would have thought Elton was… flustered?

“Well, you’ve got enough money not to care, don’t you?”, Bernie snapped despite himself. He hadn’t wanted to sound that cold and seeing the shadow flashing through Elton’s eyes made him want to take the words right back.

Elton’s lips pressed to a thin line. “I guess, I do.” 

His face shone with stubborn determination and there was a spark in his eyes, bright and blazing, a rising sun, and it left Bernie speechless.

At first, he had wondered how such a man could be a famous singer, how such a man could thrill the people, a man with a rather unorthodox clothing style, a man who almost appeared shy at times. (A man who had given him an expensive watch for no reason at all.)

Now, he knew. He was looking at a man with ambition, a man with a goal, a man who knew what he wanted to achieve and achieved it, and those were very attractive features indeed.

Not that Bernie cared anyway.

“I’ve also got enough money to choose to help you.”

“I don’t need your help!”, Bernie snapped. He forced himself to avert his eyes from Elton, and why did he want to keep looking at him? He let the breath out between his teeth, skin prickling. “I didn’t ask for you to make up some weird lie. How did you come up with lyricist anyway?”

“That, eh, wasn’t exactly a lie,” Elton murmured, and there it was again, that oddly endearing timidity. “I do want to hire you. As my lyricist, that is.”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket to hold a sheet of paper into the sun’s light. It was slightly crinkled but someone had tried to smooth it out multiple time, and Bernie squinted his eyes because he _knew_ it. He knew the paper because he knew the notepad it came from. He knew the written words too. They were his after all.

“You wrote that, didn’t you?”

Bernie’s face felt too hot all of a sudden, the knuckles of his hand brushing over the part of his jeans where a certain sheet of paper should have been.

He remembered writing it in between planting violets for Mrs. Chapman after inspiration had struck him like lightning. He also remembered stuffing it into his pocket when he couldn’t find a bin to throw it away because, well, he found himself hating it soon after putting down the last words. (And he couldn’t even write anyway, could he? He had learned that over the past months.)

“You… shouldn’t have read it,” Bernie ground out, angry with himself, and why was he anyway? He had to resist the urge to cross his arms, to clench his teeth, and there was a dull pang ringing through his chest. He couldn’t help but feel… exposed, even more so than last night.

He liked to keep those parts of his life firmly separated, and now Elton had come rushing in like a derailed train and had blended them all together.

“I meant to throw it away, it isn’t that good in my opinion. I’m, eh, I’m sorry.” He didn’t even know why he apologised.

“Oh, no, it’s great!” Elton’s eyes widened, sparkling and full of energy and so damn beautiful. “I can’t believe you wanted to throw it away. I love it, you can’t imagine how much! I... I already wrote a tune to it.”

Bernie looked at him and it was as if he were seeing him for the first time, and his heart fluttered in his chest and he felt warm and light and hopeful and _good_. For the first time in years.

“You’re serious?”, he murmured, voice oddly stifled. His eyes burned but it was only the sun blinding him, right?

“Yeah. Of course.” Elton smiled and Bernie felt his heart going out to him. “if you want to, you could come with me to the studio and I could play it to you. It isn’t too far from here.”

Bernie didn’t have to think about it. At that moment he would have agreed to anything Elton proposed.

He nodded.

~

~

~


	4. Recover Your Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back again with a new chapter :)

**Chapter 4 –** _Recover Your Soul_

~

~

~

Elton shouldn’t have asked Bernie to go with him.

He should have given him some time to think about the prospect of working as his lyricist. Because what if Bernie, deep down, didn’t want to work for him? What if he felt pressured to say yes because he didn’t have money and there wasn’t his heart speaking but his mind?

And why did Elton care at all? Why did his heart dance like those last butterflies of summer twirling through the air in some distance?

A part of him knew why he had asked Bernie to accompany him and it wasn’t because he had time to spare. It wasn’t because he didn’t know what else to do. It was because he had wanted to ask him. It was because he had _needed_ to ask him, and he had needed him to say yes.

There was something about Bernie that drew him in, that made him forget the lows of his days ( _and John_ ), those moments that made his breath stutter, and his head ache, those moments that made him wonder what he was even doing with his life.

Those feelings were weird and unexpected and, quite frankly, they scared him a bit. There was an energy that captured him when he thought of his lyrics, the way they made his own music flow out of his mind and heart and onto a sheet of paper like a brush brought colour to a painting.

But perhaps it wasn’t Bernie himself Elton longed for but merely the change he brought into his life?

He couldn’t be sure even though he should be, and that was scary too.

Elton’s eyes swept to the side, to Bernie, heart stopping every few seconds. He didn’t meet his gaze as Bernie seemed to be watching the playing children across the street, and a part of him was glad.

He wouldn’t have to explain his lingering stare. Because he did stare, he stared at him even though he shouldn’t, eyes glued on the strands of hair caught by the sun, and they seemed to glow like logs of wood that sparked to life through the flames of a campfire. He found himself unable to tear his eyes off, and he _knew_ and still couldn’t change it, and the knowledge made heat pool in his cheeks.

When Elton opened his mouth and spoke, it was because he needed to make himself stop (even though he didn’t want to).

“Do you often write, Bernie?”

Bernie flinched, head spinning around. (And what if he hadn’t been watching those children after all?) Their gazes locked and Elton felt his breath stuttering but Bernie hurried to face the pavement again.

“I… eh, I used to,” he murmured, voice almost too quiet to understand. “It’s… eh, you see, it isn’t the most profitable thing to do. I can’t keep chasing a dream that, well, is just that. A dream…”

There was a shadow crossing his face, eyelids fluttering as if he lacked the strength to keep them open. Elton didn’t know what to say, limbs oddly heavy. That was when Bernie seemed to realise what he had said because his eyes went wide, lips opening hastily as if he were forcing himself to say something even though he couldn’t grasp the words.

“I mean, I… it isn’t that important to me anyway.” A snort, and he shook his head as if to convince himself, and Elton knew, he just knew that Bernie was lying. However, he wasn’t sure if Bernie knew it himself.

Elton felt the urge to reassure him running through his veins, the urge to tell him that he shouldn’t stop believing because you could never know where your life might lead to, the urge to tell him that it could always get better. But the words didn’t want to leave his throat, and wasn’t it a much too intimate thing to say when they had only met each other the day before?

He might have said it anyway if he hadn’t glimpsed a familiar building some metres down the street. The recording studio.

“Ah, look, there it is!” Elton exclaimed, and it seemed to be such a lame thing to say, but Bernie followed his gaze with genuine interest, and Elton smiled.

And wasn’t there a small grin dancing around the corners of Bernie’s lips as well?

~

When Elton sat down in front of the piano, black curves polished and glimmering in the light of several lamps, he was nervous. His skin tingled, his mouth was oddly dry and he regretted not having drunk a glass of water before. It was an unusual feeling, so unusual actually that it took him a few moments to be certain.

He _was_ nervous to play although it wasn’t even being recorded, even though there was only one person listening. It was only to show Bernie what a great musical duo they could be, why was he nervous?

Or maybe that was exactly the reason why.

The sheets of notes he had written down the night before were still lying in the music room of the mansion but he didn’t need them anyway, he didn’t even need the lyrics. He hadn’t memorised them consciously but as his fingers hit the keys, the wood cool against his skin, he could feel the song with its words and melodies dancing beneath his hands, in his ears, and in his heart too.

He would only need to give in to the urge to play, to the energy engulfing him like flames, to the itch in his fingers, and it was easy, and he took a deep breath, and he gave in. It was the easiest thing he had ever done.

It was weird how time flew by like a runaway train. It was weird how he didn’t seem to live those few minutes, not really. It was as if he _were_ living, in a way, living in the music, living through the music, and he put everything he had into it. One second the first lines of the song were rolling off his tongue, the next second his hands glided across the keys to play the closing notes.

There was an odd sense of regret drifting through his mind, that feeling one got when leaving a party and its joys behind, when waiting at the dark corner of a street, starry sky far above the roofs. The odd feeling of being lost, of yearning for past hours because you realised the pleasant buzz was over and you didn’t know when it would be back.

Elton wanted to play the song again (and again and again and again). However, he forced himself to pull his fingers back, to stand up. The walls danced for a moment, and he was a bit dizzy, wasn’t he?

He took a deep breath, gaze running across the room, searching for _him_.

Bernie was leaning against the wall, but when their eyes met, he pushed himself off it to walk towards Elton. There was an expression in his eyes that was hard to define, a churning sea, flickers of sun rays sprayed across it, perhaps impressed, perhaps disappointed, and why didn’t he say anything?

His mouth opened, but there was another voice echoing through the live room, just after the clacking of an opening door.

“What a great song, Elton!”, Ray Williams said.

Elton turned around to look at a face he hadn’t expected to ever see again, dark fringe above brown eyes that always reminded him of a golden retriever, loyal and friendly. He hadn’t looked like that when Elton had left him and Dick to engage John as his new manager. Now, though, the frosty expression of his memories was molten, cheeks a bit pale but rosy enough.

Elton couldn’t believe Ray had forgiven him, not when the parting had been that ugly, and his eyes widened. Ray apparently couldn’t believe what he had said either, smile locked to his face in a way that was more paralysed than genuine. It faltered when he rubbed his neck, face reddening.

“I mean, not as great as what you’ve done with Dick and me, but, eh…” He cleared his throat. “Good enough.”

Elton didn’t say anything, torn between the urge to greet Ray with a grin and the voice in his mind telling him he didn’t need Ray, he shouldn’t converse with people that didn’t aid his goals, his career (and that voice bore a striking resemblance to John’s).

“Ray,” he managed. “You’re here.”

It hadn’t been loud enough, though, because Ray continued as if he hadn’t said anything (or maybe Ray hadn’t even tried to listen, caught up in his own thoughts).

“I didn’t hear that song before, is it part of a new album? Or perhaps a single?”

Elton wet his lips, suppressing the urge to cross his arms, and those words didn’t sound bad at all, did they? He shook his head, or he wanted to, but maybe a part of him didn’t want to after all because he ended up glancing at Bernie standing barely a metre away from him. He hurried to look at Ray again.

“No,” he said, but the syllable felt wrong in his mouth.

“Not yet,” he added, and that was much better. Bernie had to feel the same way, he liked the song, didn’t he? He had to. _Please_ , Elton’s mind begged even though he couldn’t bring himself to say it in front of Ray (and perhaps not even without him). _Please, like the song!_

He forced those annoyingly frustrating and unusual thoughts away, or tried to at least, and why did _he_ pop up in his thoughts more than anything else recently? When Elton spoke, his voice had an angry edge to it that he regretted in that very moment.

“What are you doing here, Ray? You know I don’t work with you anymore.”

Ray’s face darkened like a rain cloud hiding the sun on its way across the sky. He pursed his lips. “I didn’t know I had to write a letter of application to speak to the mighty Elton John. Or perhaps the right amount of dough would have cleared the way just fine…”

He rolled his eyes. “I thought we were friends but I guess the only friend you need is _Reid_.”

The name sounded more like an insult than anything else.

Elton felt his neck prickling as if tiny drops of water were running down his skin, and he grimaced. A part of him wondered what Bernie was thinking about this conversation, and it couldn’t be good, and he frowned even more. He rubbed off the sweat making his skin itch just above the brow and sighed.

“We can still be friends. We _are_ friends,” he murmured before swallowing down that damn uneasiness. “And John isn’t as bad as you make him seem, he’s, well, he’s smart, he’s hardworking, he supports my music, he supports me… you shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

Ray lifted a brow, not really convinced, but the part about their friendship did seem to console him a bit. “Hm. Alright,” he said, a warning flashing through his eyes, the words _I let you get away with this this one time_ dancing unsaid on his lips. It was only then that his gaze wandered to Bernie.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he stated, brows knitted. It didn’t sound mean or hostile but genuinely confused.

Bernie looked at him as if he hadn’t even entertained the possibility of being spoken to, eyes wide and glazed. Though, he caught himself surprisingly fast. “I’m Bernie. I’m…” A quick glance to Elton, and it was almost as if he were asking for help, but that couldn’t be, could it?

Something flickered through his eyes, and he seemed to fight with the words as they left his quivering lips. Elton’s eyes roamed over him wondering if he wanted him to lose or win this fight, wondering what it was that made looking at him so easy and so hard at the same time.

“I’m his lyricist,” Bernie said.

~

Elton John.

Bernie had heard that name before. He had listened to a song or two with half an ear (and those radio stations had hardly played anything else recently, had they?). He hadn’t payed that much attention to them because he had got better things to do, more important things to do (like earning money, like surviving).

How could he have not been paying attention?

How could he have ignored a talent that was so glaringly obvious now?

Elton was a genius, simple as that, and Bernie hadn’t been able to do anything else than stare at him in awe while he had played the song, while he had sung _his lyrics_. And it had been as if the earth itself had stopped rotating for a moment, resting, listening, because how could you not listen to this miraculous melody?

When Elton finished, Bernie didn’t know what to say, and a part of him wondered why he should even say anything. There was no way Elton couldn't know how great he was, was there?

A part of him felt as if lead had been fastened upon his shoulders, an odd taste spreading through his mouth, like rotten apples maybe, and he needed a few moments to recognise the feeling. He now knew even less what Elton wanted from him, because he was great, terrifically so, and why should he need a failed artist like Bernie? Why should _he_ have the honour of writing his songs? How could he hope to match that greatness?

Elton had said he liked _Border Song_ (and how had Elton managed to write such a beautiful tune in just one night?). Elton had said he wanted him as his lyricist. Bernie almost believed him. But even if Elton really did like the lyrics, perhaps even loved them, what if he wouldn’t like anything else Bernie wrote?

What if he would be disappointed with his future work?

Bernie took a deep breath but the weight didn’t want to leave his chest, and his face felt oddly hot. Having a job, a real job, working with someone as impressive as Elton sounded like a dream. But it also sounded like a lot of pressure and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to bear it. It only now dawned on him what he might sign himself up for.

It was a relief when that other guy, Ray, came in to talk to Elton, because he had time to think, had time to exhale, to inhale, to make up his mind.

It wasn’t easy. Perhaps it wasn't even possible.

However, when Ray asked him who he was, his tongue moved against his will. What he said, what he did, might not be the logical thing to do, might not be the safe thing to do, but his mind urged him to make a decision, and a decision he made. He could only hope that it was the right one.

“I’m his lyricist,” he said.

“Ah.” Ray raised his brows, not entirely in surprise though. “So it isn’t Jeremy anymore?” He turned to Elton and a small laugh escaped his lips. “You really change them like your pants, don’t you?”

Bernie couldn’t help but wonder if Elton really was as impulsive as Ray was hinting at. (How long until he would tire of Bernie’s lyrics, of Bernie himself? How long until he would get rid of him?)

It didn’t help his insecurity at all but he tried his best to ignore the feeling, to focus on the conversation.

Elton didn’t laugh. When he opened his mouth, his voice was more of a growl. “Ray, how about you stop making those unfunny jokes?”

It only made Ray laugh more.

Looking at Elton’s frowning face, irritation written upon his cheeks, Bernie couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips, and Elton was a bit overreacting, wasn’t he? (It was weird how Bernie had to resist the urge to squeeze his shoulder, to reassure him that he was on his side after all, and why did he _want_ to be on his side anyway?)

“How about no?” Ray chuckled, but it lacked a mean spark and soon faded away. “Well, I’m sorry, alright? Actually, I’m here because I wanted to ask if you’re going to that party at Freddie’s? I _know_ you’re invited. We could go together, perhaps go out drinking first, what do you say?”

He smiled, genuinely this time, then shrugged slightly. “You can bring Reid if you _really_ need to, and, yeah, you could come too, Bernie, eh? It’ll be fun.”

_Going to a party?_

Bernie could count the times he had been to a party on one hand, and they had all taken place in high school. It wasn’t that he didn’t like parties, but it was rather difficult to be invited to one when you didn’t have any friends to speak of. The people he had once called friends were long gone, lost in the world, either on adventures or busy with building a career, a family. Sometimes he felt as if he had tripped on his path of life, as if he had fallen down, as if he still wasn’t really standing again.

It was a sad realisation.

However, he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to go to a party that _Elton John_ was invited to (and his awful manager). What would he even wear? Did he even own anything that didn’t look as if it had been handed down at least five times?

“Sure,” Elton said. “Do you want to go, Bernie?” There was a new sparkle in his eyes when he tilted his head slightly, their gazes meeting, and Bernie’s breath got stuck in his throat. “I’d like to drink to our future songs.”

Bernie had been inclined to say no, he had been convinced he should say no, and he had thought he would say no when asked, because he had risked enough already, hadn’t he? It was weird how his determination crumbled to dust as soon as Elton’s words reached his mind.

“Eh, why not?”, he murmured against reason, heart fluttering, nodding in a way that didn’t seem natural even to himself. _What am I doing here?_ , his mind asked, screamed, and he couldn’t answer. “Yeah… I’d love that.”

Did he?

“Oh. Great.” Ray smiled, gaze straying upwards to look at the clock on the wall. The time must have surprised him because his eyes widened and he hurried to close the buttons of his open jacket. “Well, I have to go. I’ll call you, Elton. I hope you two have a good day, don’t work too much, eh?”

As soon as the door closed behind Ray, Elton turned to him grinning brightly, and Bernie couldn’t help but smile too. (And why did he grin anyway?)

When Elton petted his shoulder, the touch made his skin tingle in a weird way, a weirdly nice way, and if he hadn’t pulled back his hand a second later, Bernie might have frowned.

“I’m really glad you want to work with me, Bernie. I’ll prepare the contract as soon as possible, it won’t take too long. Any wishes regarding your share of the sales? Salary?”

Bernie felt his face flush and he couldn’t do anything against it, thoughts reeling. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“I..” He gulped. “I don’t know.”

Elton shrugged and didn’t seem to be capable of losing that smile because it only seemed to get brighter. Perhaps it was even able to outdo the sun’s light, Bernie thought, mind humming, heart singing.

“I’ll think of something.” A shadow drifted through Elton’s gaze, and his eyebrows narrowed as if an important thought had only now crossed his mind. “Ah, almost forgot…,” he whispered to himself, hand reaching into the pocket of his blue-white striped trousers.

“Here, it’s yours after all.”

Bernie’s fingers closed around the silver watch, and it was warm, and the case almost seemed to beat in a hasty, fluttering rhythm. Or perhaps it was just his heart, who knew?

~

~

~


	5. Birds

**Chapter 5 -** _Birds_

~

~

~

Elton was used to that itching spot at the borders of his mind that was always thinking about John. That was wondering what John was doing when he was gone the whole day without even calling once. That was wondering what John would say, what he would think of that new song, of that new pair of glasses, of that new painting for the bedroom. He was always there, always tinting his thoughts whether Elton wanted to think of him or not.

Though, not today it seemed. It was weird how John hadn’t even crossed his mind until Elton walked into the living room and saw him leaning against the couch. (But perhaps that was because someone else had occupied that space.)

He paused knitting his brows slightly because John’s gaze captured him as soon as he stepped over the threshold, a gaze like a breeze of cold air, oddly intense as if charged with energy, and why did it seem as if he had waited for Elton to return?

(John never waited for him. He was always either already there and working or coming late with the confidence of a man that knew he could allow himself to do so, a man that knew he wouldn’t be facing any consequences.)

Then Elton remembered their discussion in front of the jeweller’s shop, his aversion to Bernie, and he felt as if he had walked away from a sunlit path to fight his way through shadowy woods. _We’re going to resume this talk later_ , his memories whispered and he gulped.

“I don’t want to talk about it!”, he exclaimed before John could say anything, skin itching, a headache humming at his temple, and why couldn’t John just let it go? Why were they always arguing about the smallest things when all Elton wanted was to love him? To be loved by him? He couldn’t remember a day they hadn’t yelled at each other at least once, and he _hated_ it.

“It isn’t talking when you’re the only one speaking, Elton,” John said walking up to him with a smile, a brow raised as if saying _you agree, don’t you?_ , as if saying _even you must know that_. “And you _will_ be the only one speaking. You’re going to tell me you’ve sent that clown back to the circus he’d come from and you’ve chosen one of the _real_ applicants to be your new lyricist.”

His eyes narrowed a bit more and Elton’s stomach twisted. “Right?”

Well, another one of those days, wasn’t it?

“Bernie’s my lyricist. I don’t need any other,” Elton snarled pressing his hands into his hips. “Throw away the applications, they were all terrible anyway.”

John’s jaw tensed and he didn’t answer right away but the look in his eyes was deadly.

“Why so protective? You never really cared for any of the others.” He shook his head, tone sickeningly sweet as if reminding an overly rude child of how to behave. “What’s so special about a guy that looks like the only thing he writes is his signature when applying for unemployment benefits? Did you let him blow you on the street, and he’s just so great you had to employ him?”

His chuckle had never sounded uglier.

Elton froze paling as ice trickled through his body, and John was joking, he must be, but it wasn’t funny at all. Elton prayed with every fibre of his body that he wouldn’t notice the change in his expression, in his whole posture that was undoubtedly there.

“Shit, John, don’t be ridiculous!”, he snapped, perhaps a bit too hasty, a bit too loud. His heart jumped against his rips as if trying to break free. “We’re together, aren’t we? _I_ wouldn’t cheat on you… you on the other hand…”

How often had he caught John looking after other men with that odd spark in his gaze? How often had he seen him talking and laughing with other men in a way that was scarily similar to their first meeting? How often had he lain awake at night, alone in their bed, wondering if John, maybe, wasn’t at a business conference at all?

John blinked and he didn’t say anything, he didn’t move, and Elton almost regretted his words. He had needed to change the topic, had blurted out the first thought that had crossed his mind, and now it dawned on him that he didn’t _want_ to know the truth. For a moment it was as if the wheels of time had stopped turning, the silence of the room screaming almost as loud as the thoughts in his mind.

Then John stepped closer, head tilted slightly, and the coldness melted from his face like snow in spring. When he lifted a hand to cup Elton’s cheek, thumb caressing the line of his jaw, the touch made tingling warmth run through his body.

“Darling, what makes you think I would do that?”, John murmured, a pain humming through his words that might not have been entirely genuine. However, Elton was all too willing to ignore it.

He sighed, eyelids fluttering close, and wouldn’t it be right to give John the benefit of the doubt? Wasn’t he overreacting, drawing conclusions out of mere coincidences? Wouldn’t it be better to let it go? To go on, so they wouldn’t keep talking about this, and perhaps John wouldn’t keep talking about Bernie either.

Elton shrugged because he didn’t want to fight, because he was tired and it felt too good to be touched in this gentle, soft way that was almost enough to make him feel loved. It felt so good that a part of him wondered if it would even matter if John cheated on him, if he would even be able to leave him (and he couldn’t answer that question). 

If John was ready to forgive and forget, Elton wouldn’t be the one to bring up this dooming topic over and over again. (You could only deal with so many cuts to the heart at once.)

When John kissed him, it was just like those first hesitant touches that hadn’t stayed hesitant for long. It was nice and sweet, familiar lips melting against his with just enough pressure to make him feel drunk and breathless, to make it easy to lean in and forget.

There was a voice whispering at the back of his mind but it was quiet and the sound of his heartbeat too loud, and it wasn’t really important anyway, was it?

~

By the time Elton woke up the next day, it was almost noon and John wasn’t lying next to him anymore. Though, when he reached out, fingers dancing lazily over the silken blankets, the other side of the bed was still warm and he couldn’t help but smile.

It was nice to think that it would get better now, that he had survived the night to welcome the sun again, and it was easy to believe as well. But perhaps that was only because he wanted to believe it, because he felt sick just thinking about a new crisis, a new fight, a new dispute. Though, it wasn’t avoidable as a rising musician, was it?

His smile crumbled as he thought of his last album. It would have flopped rigorously if it hadn’t been for the duet with Tina Turner that had somehow managed to win the crowd.

But, _no,_ it had changed, hadn’t it?

“I have Bernie now,” Elton murmured to himself trying to shake off the icy sensation that crept into his limbs, that reminded him that he could fall from the sky of rock and roll anytime. He gulped. Its grip was so tight that he only noticed his wording after pushing himself off the mattress.

His cheeks tingled with heat, and why did he say it like that? He shouldn’t think of Bernie as his property, that was weird and inappropriate and completely uncalled for. It wasn’t as if they had a strong, lifelong relationship, right?

The thought made Elton pause and he couldn’t help but wonder what would have been if they had met before, if they had met before he had published his first album, before he had made it big in the United Kingdom. Their first meeting wouldn’t have been in a gloomy alley in the midst of the night, that was certain.

Remembering that incident didn’t help making the blush fade and he clenched his teeth walking out of the room with quick steps. There was no use pondering something that couldn’t be changed anyway. He was happy with his life as it was, wasn’t he?

_Wasn’t he?_

He didn’t feel like smiling anymore when he couldn’t find John, and for a moment he considered pouring himself a glass of the red wine John had got as a present from his secretary some time ago. He was ready to just do it when the doorbell rang.

Elton did smile when he saw the envelope that had come in the mail, a sheriff star drawn with black marker in the bottom right corner. The corners of his mouth hurt because he just couldn’t stop grinning, and he shouldn’t have found it that adorable, right?

~

It was funny how Bernie hadn’t even looked at his old texts in the last weeks, how he hadn’t even batted an eye as they had collected dust and raindrops that had sneaked through the leak in the window. Now he wished he had written more (and better) lyrics so that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself when sending them to Elton.

Elton had wanted to see more of his work, though, so Bernie didn’t really have a choice, did he? Especially after he hadn’t only given him back that watch but also a considerable amount of notes that Bernie had almost refused to keep. _Border Song_ wasn’t _that_ good, was it? (Only Elton’s voice made it great.)

Nevertheless, the unexpected money that would bring him through the month at least, the fact that he had a real job now, that he had perhaps even made a friend made him feel almost cheery and fairly optimistic. It only lasted until after he had sent away the lyrics, though.

He was walking home through the streets. The wind was grasping at him with cold fingers and he shivered despite his closed jacket. The weight that had lingered on his shoulders far too long was gone for the most part because he didn’t have to worry about not being able to pay for something to eat in the following days. Because he wouldn’t have to risk catching a cold while trying to please unfairly rich men with ugly attitudes.

“Hey, Bernie!”, a voice called, and it almost made him wince. He shouldn’t have paused. He should have walked right on as soon as he noticed those familiar, quivering syllables that could only be a sign of slight drunkenness. When he did turn around, it was out of hesitant politeness, perhaps even friendliness, because he knew Hugh.

Hugh was working as a prostitute at the brothel a few blocks away and they had talked from time to time. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be nice because he was indeed often friendly, funny and lovable too, if he wanted to be. That wasn’t the problem. It were his annoyingly stubborn attempts at getting Bernie to work with him that made him unwelcome more often than not.

“How are you doing, Hugh?”, Bernie ground out trying not to grimace.

Hugh wore tight-fitting leather pants, and a light, navy blue shirt that matched his curly, dark hair. His pupils were black, dilated, almost swallowing the brown circles of his irises.

“My dear friend,” he grinned and this time Bernie did wince when a rather sweaty hand patted his shoulder. The bitter taste of alcohol floated through the air, and Bernie was strangely glad he hadn’t drunk that day himself.

“Ah, well, I can’t complain.” Hugh shrugged pursing his lips. “You know, that one client payed double because I’m apparently _such a charming boy_ , and the boss even let me keep it!”

A raising brow, and Bernie braced himself, almost gave in to the urge to press his palms onto his ears because he knew what would come next. It was always the same after all.

“You sure you don’t want me to put in a good word for you? You would make so much more money, I can’t keep watching you struggle. It’s actually quite easy after getting used to it, you know. I’m sure it’s just that mental barrier that keeps you from doing more, Bernie. Once you’re over it, it’s easy.”

He chuckled and Bernie very much wanted to give him a healthy jab to the rips. He didn’t do it, but he did shake off the hand on his shoulder, stomach twisting, and it shouldn’t have felt that heavy, right?

“You know my answer to that question.” Bernie tried to resist the urge to cross his arms, the urge to walk away without another word. His skin prickled as if invisible ants were crawling over it, and his fingers quivered, itched to rub them away even though it wasn’t possible. He shivered. “Besides, I don’t think I-

“Oh, what’s that?”, Hugh exclaimed, and his gaze wasn’t directed at Bernie’s face anymore, an odd sparkle in his eyes. The few seconds that Bernie needed to realise _where_ he was looking at were enough for Hugh to grasp his wrist and examine it more closely.

Bernie flinched. The back of his hand almost met Hugh’s cheek when he yanked it out of his grip, skin burning as if he had reached into a fire. He stumbled backwards, heart leaping to his throat, fighting the urge to hide his wrist behind his back, but Hugh had already seen it, hadn’t he? (Why was he that protective anyway?)

“Where did you get that shiny watch, Bernie?,” Hugh asked, a smirk dancing around the corners of his mouth, and Bernie didn’t like it at all. “Looks quite expensive... you didn’t buy it yourself, did you?”

Bernie took a deep breath, pressed his eyes close, but he didn’t manage to shake off the uneasiness when he looked at Hugh again. “That’s what I wanted to say. I won’t be standing here anymore. I have a job now.” _A real job_ , he wanted to add, but that would have been rather mean, wouldn’t it?

“Ah?” Hugh lifted his brows, and the grin didn’t vanish, and that was weird, wasn’t it? Bernie opened his mouth to repeat himself but Hugh beat him to it.

“So you didn’t need my help after all! What an interesting turn of events. I’m proud of you, Bernie, what’s his name, eh? Do I know him?”

For a few seconds he was too stunned to speak, to move, to breathe. It was weird how he could feel as if someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over his head while his face was heating up with the intensity of the sun on a cloudless sky at the same time.

“ _Fuck_ , not that kind of job, Hugh!,” Bernie snarled, mind oddly dizzy, and how did he dare to even suggest such a thing? Elton didn’t want him to do anything like that. He had made it quite clear at their first meeting, hadn’t he?

“I write lyrics, okay? Nothing else. Bye, Hugh.” He turned around without another glance, and he should have done so way sooner. What had he expected from Hugh? Of course his thoughts would stray into _that_ direction again, and it wasn’t as if Bernie had mentioned his passion for writing to him before. It wasn’t as if that idea was entirely impossible. There might even have been a time where it would have been quite possible. Who could blame Hugh for having this trail of thoughts?

But Bernie wouldn’t apologise and he wouldn’t keep talking to him. He couldn’t. It was weird how he felt as if the earth were crumbling beneath his feet, as if he could fall into a bottomless pit any second now, and he couldn’t even say why he felt that way.

“But he gave you that watch, didn’t he?,” Hugh yelled after him, an ugly laugh tinting his words. “Seems to me as if he wouldn’t say no to a bit of close cooperation!”

Bernie didn’t answer.

~

It wasn’t even ten pm when he arrived at home, and he wasn’t tired enough to sleep. He sat down on his bed, his own breath loud in the small room, his heartbeat humming at the borders of his consciousness, and it was weird how his feet didn’t hurt from walking around all day for once. It was weird how he didn’t have to worry about the next day for once. It was weird how he had actually some time for himself for once (and he didn’t even know what to do with this time).

It was unusual but not bad.

_Perhaps.._

A small smile tugged at his lips when Bernie picked up his notebook and a cheap, yellow pencil. He needed to sharpen it first but he had time now, didn’t he? He had time to sharpen the pencil, to throw away the wood shavings, to take a sip out of the bottle of water that was leaning against the wall. (He didn’t feel like drinking booze that day, perhaps he wouldn’t feel like it ever again.)

It was funny how much he had missed those tiny scratchy sounds whenever the tip of the pencil with its graphite mine danced over the paper. It was funny how much he had missed to just let his thoughts flow out of his mind and onto the sheet, words almost appearing out of thin air. It might not be a melody like Elton’s magnificent tunes but it felt close enough to him.

Bernie didn’t write more than a few stanzas until his eyelids began to flutter with fatigue, and he knew that it wasn’t his best work. He knew that it wasn’t more than a warm-up after he hadn’t written lyrics in such a long time. He knew that he definitely wouldn’t send these to Elton.

But for once he didn’t feel bad about it.

There was a warmth inside him that told him that he still had the skills, that he had always had them, and he got more time now, he would write again, he could do it. It wouldn’t be easy but he would manage it. Everything would be better than what he had done before, right?

When Bernie switched off the light to sleep, he felt better than he had in a long time.

However, there was a part of him that thought back to his conversation with Hugh, to his words and what they had hinted at. And that part couldn’t help but wonder if Elton really only wanted his lyrics, if that was the only thing he was paying him for, if he wasn’t just waiting for the right opportunity to ask… for more.

It wasn’t the most reassuring thought and, even though he was soon slipping into a deep sleep, Bernie didn’t really manage to shut it down completely.

~

~

~


	6. Tinderbox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been too long, I'm sorry! I hope there are still people reading this story because I'm determined to finish it ;)

**Chapter 6 –** _Tinderbox_

~

~

~

_Oh, I need you to turn to when I lose control. You're my guardian angel who keeps out the cold._

The air was humming even after the last notes had faded away like clouds on the horizon. Elton took a deep breath and let go of the tension in his hands, pulling them away from the keys of the piano. 

“That should be enough for today,” he murmured even though he wouldn’t have minded spending some more hours here, singing Bernie’s lyrics, recording their songs. It made him feel warm and fuzzy and excited, not unlike the feeling you got in the early morning hours of your birthday. It felt right. 

Nevertheless, he couldn’t stay, not when there was a party he had to attend in a few hours. He needed time to pick an outfit, to fix his hair, to choose the right accessories. Leaving the live room, thoughts no longer preoccupied with music, his smile quivered and his mind was reeling. Was there even enough time still? 

When he looked up, his gaze crossed Bernie who was exchanging a few words with the sound engineer. It was weird how familiar it felt to see him even though they had only begun to record songs together a few days ago. It was weird how much he was always looking forward to their recording sessions. It was weird how he had got used to this new routine so quickly. It was almost as if he had already followed it his whole life unconsciously. 

“You didn’t forget the party, did you?”, Elton felt the urge to ask as soon as Bernie turned to him. 

Bernie’s eyes widened slightly, almost as if in shocked daze. Though, perhaps it was only a trick of the light because his words were confident and certain enough. “Ah, the party, yeah. We wanted to go with that other guy. Ray, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes.” Elton felt a smile tugging at his lips. It was a nice feeling. It was always nice to talk to Bernie. “Do you want me to pick you up later? Or maybe you could come to my house, it’s closer to the _Artesian_. Ray suggested to meet up there at half past ten.” 

Something flashed through Bernie’s eyes but it was too quick to recognise. He seemed to consider the words, eyebrows knitted, and there was something in his posture that changed, a new tension perhaps, a tilted head. Elton couldn’t be sure, though. 

“Eh, I know the _Artesian_. I think I’ll just go there by myself, if you don’t mind. I need to do some things, buy groceries, that kinda stuff, you know.” Bernie shrugged, a small smile on his lips. 

Elton’s grin froze and for a moment he didn’t know what to say. There was a part of him that wanted to narrow his eyes, that wanted to clench his jaw and ignore the words out of spite. But why was there anger at all? Why was there disappointment? He had no right to be offended. It had been a simple question and Bernie had given a normal answer. 

“Alright,” he murmured begrudgingly. “I’ll see you then.” 

~ 

Elton couldn’t remember what he had ordered when the waitress put the glass with its red glowing content in front of him. He wasn’t even sure if there was vodka or rum in it but, well, alcohol was alcohol, right? You could drink your way through the night with both of them and you wouldn’t be able to feel the difference. 

_You know your friend Ray and I aren’t on the best of terms_ , John had said before giving him a smile that shouldn’t have looked that damn apologetic. _I’ll meet you at the party._

Elton took a sip from the drink. It didn’t burn his throat and he couldn’t say why but he couldn’t say what it did taste like either. It didn’t really matter anyway, did it? 

Ray’s lips were moving at a speed that made them look like wings of a hummingbird, always moving, always talking. Elton had long given up on trying to follow his words. It wasn’t fair, he knew that, but he also couldn’t keep his gaze from flicking to the clock on the wall every ten seconds. He couldn’t keep his mind from wandering off. 

It was fourteen minutes after half past ten, fourteen minutes and counting, dammit. 

His hand on the table began to twitch, the fingers tapping on the surface as if it would make the ropes around his chest disappear. His thoughts went back to every time he had met up with Bernie wondering if he had been late before. What if he had changed his mind? What if he was ready to make music with Elton but didn’t want to go further than that? 

_I don’t want our relationship to be purely professional_ , Elton realised, heart clenching. _I want to be his friend. I want him to be my friend._

It was odd how that thought made his face burn, but perhaps that was only the alcohol affecting him after all. They didn’t really fit together, did they? Elton hiding behind biting words, tinted glasses and clothes like Amazonian birds. Bernie being... Bernie. 

“Ah, look, Elton! There he is, New Jeremy!” Ray took a short drag of his cigarette, then paused as he noticed Elton’s contracted brows. “I mean, Bernie, your new lyricist, you-“ 

_Bernie?_

Elton didn’t listen. His head shot around to face the direction Ray was looking at and, sure enough, there he was: Bernie, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head to reveal a wandering gaze. 

Elton blinked and that was when Bernie noticed them too, when the lines in his face smoothed out to give way to a smile. It was a nice smile, Elton decided. A smile worthy to smile back to. 

He couldn’t really make out what Bernie was wearing beneath that leather jacket but there was a line of purple fabric in between the black that matched his dark hair. When he turned to walk to their table, the silver watch on his wrist caught what dim rays of light were dancing through the room and glimmered every now and then. 

Elton had to resist the sudden urge to rake his fingers through his hair, the grip around the glass tightening as if threatening to break it. The material seemed to be solid enough, though. When Bernie sat down, the cranberry-coloured liquid wasn’t pouring out of appearing cracks. 

“Glad you could make it,” Elton said and his voice didn’t even reveal his former worry. 

It was barely twenty minutes of empty small-talk later that a visibly more than slightly drunk Ray ordered a generous number of shots, exclaiming this was just the right time to get to know each other a bit more thoroughly. 

“We take turns asking questions... don’t want to answer, drink, _comprende_?” Ray wriggled his brows, grin promising that this game would have no winners. “It’s like truth or dare, but without dare obviously. Makes it much more interesting, you’ll see.” 

“You’ll be disappointed, Ray! I have nothing to hide,” Elton chuckled ignoring that unwelcome flicker of uneasiness that tried to fight its way through nightly excitement. That would be fun, right? “You, my friend, are digging your own grave.” 

“Ha! You wish! You may be able to deceive yourself but you don’t know how often I’ve played this game. I know secrets that could crush enterprises and break lifelong friendships and kill what’s left of the mayor’s marriage! Though, _of course_ , my lips shall stay sealed.” Ray’s eyelids fluttered as he brought a finger to his mouth but the gesture looked more ridiculous than secretive and Elton couldn’t help but laugh. 

Maybe that was why his gaze only then flickered to Bernie, Bernie who wasn’t laughing at all, who wasn’t frowning or glowering either but wearing an expression made of stone. A mask, ordered and put on because you paid for it and now you had to play the part, didn’t you? Even if it turned out not to be quiet what you had wished for. 

Elton tilted his head ever so slightly watching the colour fade from Bernie’s cheeks, watching his jaw clench, and it made his insides twist. It took his mind an embarrassingly long time to catch up with what his heart had been trying to tell him ever since the shots had found their way to their table. His grin turned into a grimace that, luckily, went unseen by a distracted Ray who was showing off his questionable knowledge in cocktails, unaware of his lack of audience. 

Of course, Bernie didn’t want to play this game! It should have been obvious from the beginning. Elton wanted to punch himself for being so dumb, and probably also Ray for getting the idea. Who could blame Bernie for not wanting to share his private life? When there were people around them who would listen, who would judge and frown at even the tiniest detail of _that_ topic? 

_How could I forget about this?_ , ran through Elton’s mind like a broken record, lips opening to say something despite not knowing what. Staying silent after all. 

Maybe it was because he didn’t really see Bernie like that, never had, because he only saw his lyrics, his talent, his genius, and the world they would conquer. It was so easy to discard because he had never been in that situation, he had enough money, he had, well, he had John, and it wasn’t exactly the thing you could talk about in a normal conversation, was it? He had always avoided the topic when talking to Bernie and if he was being honest, he hadn’t really thought it was such a big deal. 

But seeing Bernie, the shocked fear written in his facial features despite obvious efforts to hide it, made Elton realise that he had been wrong. For Bernie it was as real as the Cold War because it was his life and his secret, a secret that Elton shouldn’t have discovered in the first place. 

It wasn’t more than a small possibility that Ray would steer the game into this direction and yet Bernie was _scared_ and Elton felt like a child that had failed its first test after the summer holidays. 

“Well, who wants to start?” Ray grinned. 

He didn’t really have a choice, did he?

“Do your best,” Elton declared, his hand waving through the air like that of a knight facing its enemies, the gesture taunting _Come at me… if you dare_.

“Alright, let’s see…” The cigarette between his fingertips trembled, swayed as Ray’s fingers moved absentmindedly, the smoke creeping to the ceiling. Then, almost in slow-motion, he turned his head. “Or do you want to go first, Bernie? You barely know Elton, don’t you? I bet you’re _dying_ to discover all his dirty secrets.”

Laughter, and Elton just wanted to slap a hand onto Ray’s mouth and push it right back into his throat. _This is a bad idea_ , he couldn’t help but think and the evening had only just begun. _Bad, bad idea_.

A part of Elton couldn’t believe how Ray hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary yet and the same part was extraordinarily grateful.

“Eh, you’re not wrong,” Bernie murmured. When Elton lifted his gaze to look at him, at least a touch of colour had returned to his cheeks even though that oddly lost expression had yet to leave his eyes. The hint of a smile appeared on his lips. “Okay, Elton, when did you start playing the piano?”

“What question is that? How boring,” Ray interjected before Elton got a chance to even comprehend the content of the words. “You know, you’re supposed to ask something… inappropriate, dunno, something that makes him down that shot more quickly than that girl with the blue hat there is spinning on the dancefloor.” He pursed his lips. “ _That_ kind of question.”

“Maybe he’s just a nice guy, Ray,” Elton grinned.

“Oh, c’mon, you’re just glad to get away that easily…,” Ray said, albeit not really mean, rather like a child realising that things weren’t going as they were supposed to but coming to terms with it.

Elton didn’t think it was worth a Reply and instead turned to Bernie. “I was quite young… even before primary school, I think. My… my grandma introduced it to me, Ivy. Was a great time, really…a great time, yeah.”

It was strange to think back, back to this time that seemed so long ago, so distant, almost as if clad in grey rain. As if it didn’t belong to his life but to that of another man. _Maybe it does_ , ran through his mind and he wasn’t sure if what he felt was a good kind of feeling. When had he last talked to his grandma? His mother?... his father?

Gulping didn’t quite help him get rid of that bitter taste lying on his tongue like a blanket. He almost wished he had taken that shot.

That was until he heard Ray’s question.

“Who’s the woman, John or you?”

_What?!_

Elton’s heart skipped a beat, knowing fully well what he was implying with that question. It was a miracle that his hair didn’t catch fire, considering the way his face heated up in less than a second. It was also in that second that his fingers closed around one of the small glasses in front of them but at least he managed to glare at Ray while the alcohol burned down his throat.

“Shit, I really hate you sometimes…,” he growled, a part of him hoping Bernie hadn’t been paying attention. _Who’s the woman?_ Ha! It was such a dumb conception anyway.

Clearing his throat, he straightened his back. “As you’re _obviously_ volunteering to be next, how about you tell us about that time you met your childhood crush at Dick’s Christmas party. Clara, wasn’t it?”

Ray’s grin vanished from his face, eyes widening. It took him a few seconds of furiously clenching his jaw but he did give in and drunk, brows contracted.

“It’s cheating if you already know the story,” he mumbled, gaze straying to Bernie for help. “Say something! Don’t you agree?”

Bernie shrugged even though the grin in his face revealed his thoughts well enough. “I think I’d very much like to hear that story, sounds interesting.”

“ _Ouch_ , and here I thought we could be friends!” Ray rolled his eyes, throwing himself back in his chair in a way that would have better suited the protagonist of a Shakespearian tragedy, and losing his cigarette thereby. “Traitors, the whole lot of you!”

For quite a few moments the only sound was their laughter filling the air like the sun the sky, and it felt good to laugh, even better as it was with friends, with Bernie.

“Alright, alright, let’s get back to the game,” Ray exclaimed just as Elton began to hope that he had forgotten about it. “Bernie, go ahead, and please be nice, I do want to actually attend that party, you know?”

 _You started this game, didn’t you?_ , Elton thought, shaking his head lightly, and he would have said something as well if Bernie hadn’t beat him to it.

“Honestly, I’d really like to know why you hate Elton’s manager so much. What did he do?”

“You mean, besides being a smug, greedy and self-centred prick? Nothing, really.”

Elton rolled his eyes, ignoring that odd twisting of his stomach that made him feel as if he had eaten something rotten. “I left his record label to work with John.”

“I just don’t like him! Have you met him? Everything about him screams _I’m in it for the money_.” Ray paused, eyes lighting up as if an idea had only now reached his consciousness. “Talking of him, why isn’t he here with you, Elton?”

Why was it always him who had to make excuses, who had to cling to that terrifyingly empty space? His eyes narrowed. _Not today_.

“When have we stopped playing that game?” Noticing the face Ray was making, Elton hurried to sigh, continuing. “Look, he’s coming to the party. Be glad, you didn’t want him to be here anyway, did you?”

It wasn’t a question and Ray didn’t answer or added anything. Elton was grateful.

“Well, you’re right about the game,” Ray said instead, catching his grin again, head turning around after a few seconds of tense silence. The words afterwards weren’t much better, though. “So… it’s you, Bernie. Give me a second, I’ll think of a question…”

Elton’s breath got stuck in his throat as he noticed the way Bernie tensed up again, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit dizzy himself. _Please, don’t ask how we met. Don’t ask about the watch. Don’t-_

“I’ll be kind, with us becoming friends and you being new at the job and all that, so… when was the last time you’ve been kissed?”

Elton felt sick, heart dropping to the floor, and he knew that it wasn’t the alcohol in his blood. It really couldn’t have been an innocent, nice question, right? When he opened his mouth, it was because he noticed the shadows trailing through Bernie’s gaze, the way it became clouded as if something was pulling his consciousness out of this room and onto the streets of cold and dirty London, and it was also to fight back his own waves of nausea. Nausea that perhaps wasn’t _only_ based on his fear for Bernie and on his wish to help him.

He didn’t want to wait for Bernie to decide, there was no way he could take the risk. There was no way he would sit and listen to the answer to that question.

“Shit, Ray, I’ve just realised I promised to arrive earlier, we _have_ to go. Now. I’ll drink the last two shots for you. We all know, you wouldn’t make it to the party if you downed them.”

His own tense laugh burned his throat even more than the alcohol.

~

You could hear the beats and buzzing notes of rock and roll even before you saw the building of their origin. There was something otherworldly in walking those nightly streets with that eerily distant music keeping them company, a music that seemed to capture his soul with its promise of party and thrill, drawing him in if he wanted or not.

Bernie could hardly remember when he had last been in a similar situation. Maybe he never had. It did feel unreal, being here with Elton John, rising star of the UK, going to a party with him, as his lyricist, perhaps even as a friend.

His heart was pounding in his ears as they reached the gates and Elton exchanged a few words with the security man keeping watch. He had to fight the urge to cross his arms while waiting to be let in. His skin was prickling, breath accelerated, especially as Elton pointed to him mid-speech. Though, his thoughts rang louder than Elton’s words and he couldn’t quite make out what he was saying.

It was weird how a part of him felt as if there were a neon sign above his head telling the world about all his mistakes, about every detail of his not too prosperous life. He half-expected not to be let in, despite what Elton and Ray had been saying, the faces of strangers always twisting to suspicious, disgusted frowns in the corners of his eyes. It was hard being different, especially when no one seemed to notice your struggles. 

Maybe that was why he had changed his mind about coming here at least a dozen times, why he had been late to their meeting at the Artesian.

He still wasn’t convinced that it had been the right decision to follow the invitation. However, he did want to get to know Elton better and this was as good an opportunity as any other.

In the end, it didn’t take more than a few minutes until the gates opened, for him as well as for Elton and Ray, screams and laughter echoing unhindered through the air. If he had felt like floating in a dream before, it felt straight-up like bending the laws of nature to follow Elton to the party grounds. _I shouldn’t be here_ , he couldn’t help but think at glimpsing this mass of strangers, half of them probably part of the headlines of the latest gossip magazines. _I don’t belong here._

His heart jumped to his throat and he had to resist the urge to step closer to Elton, a part of him oddly scared to be left alone.

He frowned at the thought trying to shake the nervous uneasiness off his mind and body. _I’m here. I do like parties. I shouldn’t worry about things I can’t change_ , he told himself. _I should try to enjoy this._

It was easier said than done, though.

Bernie managed to fight his way back to reality just to see Ray running off to talk to a group of girls, grin brighter than the colourful lights illuminating the garden. He was swaying at every second step which was no surprise considering how drunk he had already appeared in the bar. The right corner of Bernie's mouth rose to a half-smile as he looked after him even though he couldn’t help but be a bit relieved that he wouldn’t have to worry about lying and keeping up pretences anymore. At least as long as nobody would decide to talk to him.

“Do you want to stand there all night?” Elton chuckled, words only slightly slurred, before nudging his side with the elbow.

Bernie snorted, warmth rushing through his veins, which was weird because he hadn’t even drunk more than half a beer so far. Moving side by side, they began to slowly cross the grounds, eyes wandering across the dimly lit silhouettes of fellow party guests. He didn’t even know where they were going to. Perhaps Elton didn’t know either but the night was mild enough not to hurry inside, so Bernie didn’t really care.

“Do you even know all these people? Or, maybe, half of them?”

“I know Freddie, that’s enough,” Elton said and Bernie saw him grinning out of the corners of his eyes. “Though, that’s not entirely true. I’ve seen most of them before and I’ve talked to quite a lot of them but I’m really bad at remembering names.” A shrug. “Isn’t necessary if everyone remembers _your_ name…. but don’t tell anyone, okay?”

A soft laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me. Any more secrets I should know of?”

He turned his head just in time to catch Elton’s gaze, green irises dancing behind the golden rims of his glasses in a way that was so very playful that it could only be hiding shadows. Bernie wasn’t sure why but his heartbeat stuttered and the second of joined gazes seemed just an eternity too long. Maybe Bernie hadn’t been serious with his question, maybe Elton hadn’t wanted to reply, or at least not seriously, but maybe Bernie also wasn’t the only one who liked to change his mind.

“You know, my name’s not really Elton John,” Elton admitted, smile trembling lightly. “Well, I’ll go and change it legally soon enough, but… I’ve been born as, eh,… Reginald Dwight.” It was almost too quiet to understand and yet Bernie had never heard anyone say a name with such vibrating disgust, their own at that. “Terrible, huh?”

Bernie lifted his brows and it was as if they were alone on the grounds, no party, no lights, no music, just them and the moon reaching out to them and the silent night sky listening to their conversation.

“Oh, not at all. I like it, sounds like a cowboy name.” Bernie’s grin widened. “And I’m saying that in the most positive way. I’ve always wanted to be a cowboy, you know, exploring the vast and magical lands of the United States. Freedom and opportunities, late sunsets and early sunrises.”

He chuckled slightly, brows furrowing as memories passed his mind. “That’s how I’ve imagined it to be, at least. Would love to see it with my own eyes someday…”

“Maybe… we could go there together… someday, I mean. Someday.”

Bernie opened his mouth to reply, mind just a bit hazy, and it might have been _I’d very much like to do that_. As it was, he didn’t get to voice his thoughts, though.

“Hey, Elton! How _great_ to see you. How are you? How’s your new album going?” The woman talking had hair like caramel and eyes like a cat, small and hazel-coloured. The dress she wore was short for a party and even shorter for an autumn night like this but she didn’t seem to notice the cold, wasn’t even shivering. Though, perhaps that was only an illusion crafted by alcohol.

She seemed as shallow as a half-dried puddle and the way Elton let the breath out between his teeth only confirmed his suspicion that he wasn’t the only one disliking her.

The girl walking behind her, though, seemed different. More beautiful than her friend despite being quite literally overshadowed by her, she had dark skin and dark hair cascading down her back and a dress like solid rosewater.

“Ah, it’s going great, should be out by December, eh, Holly…?” Bernie knew that Elton’s smile was fake without looking at him and a part of him wondered when he had begun to know him that well.

“Thanks to him, I hope. That’s Bernie, my new lyricist.” Elton lifted a hand to point at the blond woman. “Bernie, that’s Holly and…?”

“Oh, right, you don’t know her, do you? That’s my younger cousin, Carole.”

The stars sparkled in her green eyes when Carole looked up, when their gazes met and a gentle smile grazed her painted lips. She really _was_ beautiful.

“Nice to meet you.”

~

~

~


End file.
